


The Beacon Hills Horror

by Guede



Series: Of Werewolves and Tentacles [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Melissa McCall, BAMF Stiles, Cthulhu Mythos, F/M, Homecoming, Humor, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Reunions, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Stiles returns to Beacon Hills for the first time since he and his family moved away when he was just a kid.  He’s there to reacquaint himself with his old best friend, Scott McCall, but he can’t help but be drawn in as a series of strange events show him the weirder side of the town.After all, he did just graduate from Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have more than a passing familiarity with the Cthulhu Mythos or HP Lovecraft to understand the story. Also, I'm not a Lovecraft scholar and I see this as a loose fusion, not as an accurate immersion in the Cthulhu Mythos.
> 
> If you've never read the original Cthulhu stories and are going to now, please note that Lovecraft was really racist and anti-Semitic, and many of his collaborators were the same plus misogynistic, and it really, really shows in the stories. He wrote some indelible fiction and virtually created a whole subgenre of horror, but yeah. He's one of those authors where I feel really good about repurposing his canon as part of something that'd make him clutch at his morality pearls.

Stiles hasn’t been on the West Coast since his parents moved to get his mother to a specialist in Boston, so when he and his childhood best buddy Scott McCall reconnect thanks to the miracle of Facebook, its photo-tagging tool, and a very long, convoluted story of revenge involving unrelated third parties and baby photos that should’ve been burned, he thinks northern California sounds like the perfect post-graduation trip spot. He’s got a super-nice guy offering him free housing, tons of personal back-story to dig through, and it’s about as big of a change of scenery from Massachusetts as you can get.

That had been the idea, anyway. 

“If I’d known, I would’ve packed my waterproof flannels,” Stiles mutters as he, Scott, and Scott’s girlfriend Allison shlep his bags up the stairs of Scott’s apartment building, dribbling small oceans behind them. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I did know, or at least Google knew, because I distinctly remember checking while the plane was heading to the gate, and it said sunny weather for this zip code.”

“Yeah, it blew up really fast,” Allison says. She’s got the least number of bags, but she’s still carrying a pretty impressive load for somebody who wouldn’t look out of place on a fashion blog. She huffs up ahead of them to get the hall door, then wheezes into Scott’s sodden backpack as they hustle through the doorway. “I’m sure it’ll go just as quick, and you and Scott should have plenty of sun while you’re here. Usually this is the prettiest time of the year in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles glances at the window at the end of the hall, which is still indicating torrential downpour. Then he looks at Allison’s sympathetically hopeful smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Anyway, we can get out the space heater and get your stuff dry, and for now I can lend you something,” Scott says, walking down the hall. He stops at one door and frowns at the keyhole, then shifts _all_ of the bags he’s carrying to one arm. All of them. Wet weight, teetering above his head, all of them casually balanced on that arm as he rummages in his jeans pocket with his free hand.

Allison makes a hissy noise through her teeth, then scurries up just as Scott lifts his head, looking puzzled. She momentarily blocks Stiles’ view, and when she’s moved back again so Scott can open the door, Scott has both arms under the bags and is awkwardly trying to peer around the pile as he fumbles to get the key back out of the lock.

“This way!” Scott calls to Stiles, with just a little too much nervousness to be _please let him like it._

Stiles is wet and cold and he has what feels like a fetid swamp oozing primordial organisms in his left sneaker. He shrugs and waddles into the apartment, sets his armload down on the nearest piece of furniture, and then takes a look around as Allison switches on the lights.

“Roomy,” Stiles says, and for all the hustle, there’s no way Scott is faking those relieved puppy-eyes.

“Great! Okay, so your room’s over there—but I think things will dry faster if we keep your stuff out here, because then we’ll have the space heater and the best vents, so let me get that and something for you to wear…” Scott says, immediately springing into action. He is literally _bouncing_ , an eager shake in his hands as he runs around and in and out of rooms, his eyes lighting up as he grabs things like the joy of retrieving something alone is enough.

Allison’s a lot calmer, throwing Stiles an apologetic look as she cranks up the wall thermostat. Then she heads for the kitchen, but has to pull up as an oblivious Scott bounds across her path; she just shakes her head, a fond look on her face, and calls out that she’s going to start up the coffee machine.

“Thanks!” Stiles calls back. He spreads out his bags so they form a single layer, then starts thinking triage about what needs to come out for drying and what doesn’t.

It is a _huge_ two-bedroom by East Coast standards, but it’s still an apartment and space is limited. Open-floor plan so the kitchen is really more of a kitchenette, with one of those rolling carts and a stack of boxes forming a makeshift divider. Lacrosse gear is sticking out of the boxes, along with these thin sticks that Stiles at first takes for those cross-country walking rods, but then he notices the sharp points on them.

“I’m into archery,” Allison says, jamming a cup into Stiles’ chest. When he ‘oofs’ and looks up, she’s smiling at him, but it’s the kind of smile you give somebody when you’re completely ready to slap them out of your spot in line. Then, as he takes a step back, she moderates the smile so that you’d never guess she’s anything but a sweet, helpful person. “Here, let me help you get your stuff hanging up. Scott’s mom said she wanted us over to the house at six, so—”

The cup’s empty. Stiles almost tosses it back onto the counter, and in fact has his arm swinging out to do that when he realizes which bag Allison’s going for. So he lets that arm-swing swoop back around so when the cup slips out of his hands, it’s right down on the top of the bag. Allison grabs at it, catching it before it hits the floor, and Stiles grabs the bag and pulls it towards him.

“Well, I definitely do not want to be late for Melissa McCall,” Stiles says. He shakes his head, smiling, and then looks up at Allison as he unzips the bag. Keeps looking at her as he pulls open the bag’s sides, revealing a bunch of damp clothes, and then pushes them around till he can take out a plastic-wrapped tin covered in lighthouse-based Americana. “She took absolutely _no_ bullshit when I kept Scott out too late, back in the day. I’m not gonna pretend that some novelty cookies are going to make up for it, but I figure I can at least prove I’ve grown up and learned the value of advance bribery.”

Allison had been looking a little strangely at Stiles, but she relaxes into a thoroughly charmed smile now. “Oh, are those shortbread?” she says, craning to read the label on the tin. “She loves that.”

“Yep, and this at least stayed dry.” Stiles hands the tin to her and she turns around to put it on the coffee table. “The rest…”

When she turns back, he hands her some of his shirts, sighing at the trickles running off them, and then plops another stack on his knee while he pulls up the zipper. Then he gets up and the two of them start draping clothes over all of the available furniture.

Scott takes a couple minutes to get the space heater, long enough that Allison starts glancing towards that bedroom, and when he comes out again, he’s got his phone to his ear and is telling somebody that he can’t come just now, but he’ll definitely come later tonight. He doesn’t look happy about it, and when he realizes he’s gotten all the way into the living room, he blanches for a second. Then plasters a sheepish smile on his face as he sticks his phone in his pocket.

“My boss,” he says. “Work emergency.”

“Oh, man, are they gonna live?” Stiles says.

Both Scott and Allison look oddly at him.

“I mean, uh, well, maybe I shouldn’t assume that vet emergencies are like _ER_ ,” Stiles says. Then he makes a face at himself. “Not that I think actual ERs are like _ER_ , I just—binge-watch nineties’ dramas when I’m cramming for finals and…and I am just convincing you even more that I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Actually, he appears to be convincing Scott that he’s really worried, judging from the way Scott rushes to reassure him. “Oh, no, it’s okay, it’s not a—we’re not worried about any specific animal, thankfully,” Scott says. “No, it’s just, um—”

“Did that jerk ditch his shift again?” Allison says, with maybe a pointed look at Scott.

Scott blinks at her. Then his face shifts to comprehending, and then he sighs and just squats down to start unwinding the space heater power cord. “Yeah, unfortunately. So my boss was asking whether I could come in—he forgot I told him you were coming today and it’s no big deal, dinner’s still on, I just need to stop in afterwards and check on the animals.”

“Or I can drive Stiles home and you can take your bike,” Allison says. She shakes out a shirt and lays it over an armchair arm, looking at Stiles. “I’m sure you’re really tired after your flight.”

“I’m actually pretty good—got my post-graduation coma over with and everything. But hey, I’m not that guy who keeps you away from the cute suffering animals,” Stiles says. “I was figuring today would be just about hi, so that’s how tall you really are, and also, you really, really aren’t mad about the time I got us locked in the cemetery, right?”

Scott blinks rapidly, like that’s maybe the equivalent of a loading bar for him, and then a smile slowly stretches across his face. He absently twists the power cord between his hands, then flicks it out towards the nearest outlet, chuckling and shaking his head. “Honestly, I’d forgotten all about that.”

“You forgot about getting locked in a cemetery?” Allison says incredulously.

“It was only the, oh, fifth- or sixth-scariest place Stiles got us trapped,” Scott says, still chuckling. He gets up and plugs in the space heater, then nudges it towards the center of the room with his foot. “You know what was _really_ scary, was the evidence room at the police station.”

“The evidence room?” Stiles says. “What was scary about that? The light worked and everything.”

“Well, the room wasn’t scary, but your _dad_ afterward,” Scott says. He holds one hand over the heater as he fiddles with the dial. “Speaking of, you need to give him a call or anything?”

“No, he’s fine, I texted him when the plane landed,” Stiles says. “I may have also promised him pics of your mom’s roasted pork, though I told him I wasn’t sure what we were having.”

Scott grins again. “Are you kidding? The moment I told Mom you were coming back, she called up my grandma in Mexico to ship her the spices.”

* * *

Once Stiles’ things are out to dry and he’s changed into a spare set of Scott’s clothes, he stuffs his bags in the guest bedroom and he and Scott and Allison head over to the McCall house. Since it’s stopped raining, they take the long way through town so Scott can play tour guide and point out all the changes—Allison moved in during high school, so a lot of the stuff Scott talks about is new to her, too—and Stiles can think about how stuff looks so different to a little child. Even when he remembers something, he can’t really say he remembers it accurately: dimensions are off, things don’t look as cool or scary or boring, buildings are way closer together.

They’re going by a block of shops, Scott and Stiles reminiscing about the candy store that used to be at one end, when Allison suddenly lets out a—it’s kind of a yelp, but it’s just as much of an order as a signal of surprise. And the moment she does it, Scott slams on the brakes, even though he and she are looking in different directions.

Allison grabs Scott’s shoulder and jabs her finger at the windshield, then goes for the door like she’s going to just climb out into the middle of the street. Her one hand goes back up under her jacket and Stiles can almost see some kind of leather harness on her when Scott grabs her arm and yanks her back down.

“Sorry about that,” Scott says. In the same motion, he’s twisted around to look into the backseat where Stiles is. “Stray dog. We’ve got this, uh, the clinic has a drive to try and trap them and get them off the street.”

“Yeah, look, I’m going to text Deaton so he has the coordinates for later,” Allison mutters. She’d shot Scott an annoyed look, and now she shrugs off his hand and bends over something, Stiles is guessing her phone.

“Good idea. When I go help him check on the clinic, we can just come out and do a sweep,” Scott says. He smiles reassuringly at Stiles. “Anyway, sorry, that was kind of rough. But dogs usually come back to the same places so we can just go on to Mom’s place and have dinner.”

Stiles shrugs. “Okay.”

Scott looks relieved and settles back into the wheel. He starts talking about what they’ll be having for dinner, and Stiles plays along, but when they get up to the spot where Allison had been pointing, Stiles takes a good look.

It’s the mouth of an alleyway running between a gardening store’s main building and a greenhouse attached to it. Nobody is in it, and the crates and pots in it look pretty standard, except for a long, sticky-looking slick that crosses the alley a little in from the street. The slick is about a foot wide and curls around a stack of plots before hitting the mulch-strewn ground in front of the greenhouse, where it gets too dispersed to make out. Both the concrete of the alley and the mulch are still thoroughly soaked, but that doesn’t seem to affect the slick on the concrete—at one point the trail is clearly visible at the bottom of a big puddle—and Stiles thinks some of the gleam on the mulch might be slick instead of just plain water.

There’s a smell too. They’re driving a little over the speed limit but they’d have to be going a lot faster to avoid that smell, and even then—it’s just that kind of stench that hangs around like it’s glued there. This stomach-curdling, deep reek, like centuries of rot piled up on each other till it makes your mind wonder just what might have grown up in the bottommost layers.

“I know manure’s supposed to be great for your garden and all, and I’m glad they’re supporting the local farms, but I wish you could deodorize that,” Allison says loudly, over the sharply-increased whisk of the A/C.

“Yep, yeah, that was pretty bad,” Stiles says. “But looks like we’re past it.”

Scott’s already dropped back to precisely the speed limit, which has been how he’s been driving the whole rest of the time, even though next to nobody’s on the roads. Even so, Stiles gets the impression that he’s cut short their scenic detour, and in only a few more minutes, they’ve arrived at the McCall house.

“Stiles, you’re just as handsome as your father,” Melissa says, pulling him into a rib-cracking hug. “Enormous too, God, I remember when you were running around hitting your head on everybody’s knees.”

“You look great too,” Stiles croaks. He’s very sincere about that, and not just because he is massively impressed with what going to night school and getting a forensics degree and becoming the county coroner’s done to Melissa’s upper body strength. “Dad says hi. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it out too, but he says he’ll ground me for anything of yours I mess up. And these are for whatever trouble I’ll get Scott into.”

He hands her the cookies, and sure, they’re gourmet shortbread packed into the best nostalgia that Boston has to offer, but they’re still cookies in a novelty tin. They really don’t merit the wetness that comes into her eyes, or how she squeezes her arm around his waist, going on about how it’s all right, Scott kept right on getting into messes after the Stilinskis moved away so she can’t chalk that all up to Stiles.

“Oh, Allison, your father called,” Melissa says as she shoos them into the dining room. “Something about curfew.”

Stiles raises his brows. “You weren’t kidding when you said the guy’s strict,” he says to Scott.

Who makes a face and glances towards Allison, even though she’s already wandered into the other room to call her father back. “No, Chris and I are fine now,” Scott mutters. Then he seems to realize that’s not really what Stiles was saying and he looks a little nervous for a second. “It’s not her curfew. I told you he’s in charge of preserve security, right? Allison helps him out with that—commencement was just two weeks ago, there’s always a lot of trouble with high school kids going in there and getting drunk and forgetting to put out their bonfires, that kind of thing.”

“Yep, I’ve been there,” Stiles says. “Been there, done that, had to hire the lawyer to expunge the record.”

Scott looks oddly at Stiles again. There’s not a speck of disbelief in his face, but there’s not any alarm or discomfort either. If anything, Scott looks like he’s about to ask for tips, and he’s never been the lawbreaking type. 

But then his mom calls them over, asking what they want to drink and then offering them each a beer. She’s got one herself, and has just asked Stiles what his degree is in when Scott suddenly raises his head.

“Mom,” he says.

Melissa looks attentively at him, but Scott’s frozen up, his eyes darting between her and Stiles. He stammers a little and then the doorbell rings.

“That had better not be who I think it is. I _told_ him the morgue isn’t twenty-four-seven,” Melissa mutters, before excusing herself to answer it.

As she walks out, Allison walks in. Allison takes one look at Scott and then cheerfully, with a lot of bustling around, starts to forcibly seat them at the table. “So, Miskatonic University,” Allison says. “I’m going to be honest, I’ve never heard of it, and their website is very…barebones.”

“They don’t believe in marketing themselves, so they put pretty much everything behind a login,” Stiles says. He does take a seat, but makes sure that it’s one where when he leans back, he can see straight down the hallway to the front door. Mostly by attaching himself to the platter of Rice Krispie treat bars near that chair—Melissa really _does_ remember his weak points—and looking so touched by it that Allison can’t have him move down the table. “Really small private college, super-elitist. Super-inbred, to be honest. Most of the students get in with alumni connections, but I lucked out because Dad did a favor for one of the professors and then got a job as the head of campus security…”

He can’t see that much of the visitor past Melissa, who he can tell is annoyed just from how she’s holding her head, but what he does see is thirty-something man, dark wavy hair, handsome face. Smiling a lot, which just seems to tick Melissa off even more. Also, for the first couple seconds, Stiles is wondering whether the guy is going shirtless because there’s neck and neck and collarbone and chest, and _then_ Melissa moves enough for Stiles to finally see where that extremely deep v-neck finally starts.

“Does that mean you went tuition-free?” Allison asks loudly.

Stiles doesn’t even pretend to look back at her. “Yeah, though honestly, I think I kicked back enough in commissions and grants so that they got their money’s worth…that her boyfriend?”

The man on the porch suddenly looks past Melissa’s shoulder, right at Stiles. It’d be creepy except that Stiles is distracted because Scott has just spewed beer across the table. All the way across the table. As in, sprinkled Stiles’ cheek across the table, and when Stiles checks the other man, Scott’s drooped over the table and is coughing furiously while Allison thumps his back and looks alarmed.

“No,” Scott gasps. He shakes his head, rattling the bottom of the beer he’s still clutching against the table, and then levers up his arm under himself for some support. “No. Just—no.”

“Well, I’m…uh, sorry, I was just curious,” Stiles says. He’s a little worried with how long it seems to take Scott to get his breath back. “Because, and I do not mean to imply in any way that I am perving on your mom because I am not like that and my respect for her is deeply-rooted in our childhood, but I was just thinking good on her with the candy, after your jackass dad. I’m really glad you guys dumped him while I was over on the East Coast, by the way.”

Allison doesn’t really look like she approves of this line of conversation, and in fact, is gearing up to tell Stiles so to his face, but a still-coughing Scott stops her. Scott nods a couple times, tries to say something, can’t and just settles for giving Stiles a thumbs-up instead. Stiles grins and drinks some beer, and can’t help being a little amazed that even after all this time, he and Scott just have that immediate wavelength coherence.

“But, no, they’re not,” Scott mutters, as his mom comes back in.

“Who’s not?” Melissa says, eyeing the beer spray on the table.

“You and the guy out there who I thought was your boo,” Stiles explains, since yeah, this one’s on his head.

Melissa cocks her head, then snorts as she pulls out a chair for herself. “Well, I can understand why you’d think that, but I’m not really Peter’s type and thank _God_ but I’ve grown out of looking in those kinds of places.”

“Peter?” Stiles says.

“Otherwise known as the work I wish I didn’t have to be responsible for,” Melissa says. She starts to sit down, then pushes back up again. “Oh, God, and I’m forgetting the oven. Hang on, dinner’s right up. No, don’t help, just sit right there. I want to see your face when you smell it. You were so adorable, Stiles, and I’ve been waiting almost a decade for this.”

* * *

Dinner is fantastic. The roast pork is just the way that Stiles remembers it, and if anything, the beans are even better than his memory.

Stiles doesn’t enjoy it that much. He loves the way it tastes, sure, and catching up with what Melissa’s been doing is both interesting and potentially useful, since the likelihood that Stiles will at one point need to understand California coroner standards is high. But the thing is, Scott keeps checking the time.

Scott does it and his mom catches him and he apologizes. He does it and Allison inflicts under-the-table injuries on him and he smiles apologetically through the pain. He does it and Stiles swallows the urge to ask whether this is what a transcontinental ticket instead of, say, a transatlantic one to certain libraries in Budapest or Prague or Krakow gets him, and instead mentions that if Scott needs to leave early, it’s totally cool. Allison’s going to drive Stiles back and anyway, they have a whole two weeks to get to know each other and all.

“Oh, no, no, it’s okay, my boss said I can wait,” Scott says, while his body language screams like a little kid with a rest area sign coming up on the highway. “It’s just checking in on some puppies. They’re really young, they need feeding every couple of hours, that’s all.”

Allison does a decent job of ducking her wince into a loud slurp at her water glass. Then she yelps and drops her fork. “Sorry,” she says, looking around the table. “Just spilled some on myself. I’m going to go dry myself off, does anybody want anything from the kitchen? Stiles? You want another beer?”

“No, I’m good. I got all that post-commencement partying done before I flew out,” Stiles says. He pokes at the lone bean still on his plate, then gives up with a highly-satisfied groan as Allison disappears into the kitchen. “That was _epic_. I can feel my dad’s envy all the way from here.”

Melissa laughs and accepts the flattery, and then mentions that she’s got dessert flan waiting. Stiles makes like he’s dying of joy, even sliding down in his seat a few inches, and she laughs and reaches over as she rises to tousle his hair.

“So,” Stiles says, turning to Scott. “I thought you had to go in because the other guy ditched?”

Allison’s too far to hear, but Stiles mistimes his moment because Melissa turns on the kitchen threshold, a look on her face that interestingly crosses confusion and worry—worry for Scott, as if somehow, not knowing what her kid is up to is _not_ the major alarm bell here.

“Um, yeah—yeah! That’s what I mean,” Scott mumbles. He hastily chews through the mouthful of pork, then gulps the last of his beer to wash it down. “Since he’s not showing up, I have to feed the puppies. Bottle-feed. They’re, um, not weaned yet.”

“Everyday heroics for the win,” Stiles says, and Scott relaxes. “You got pics? What kind of puppies are they?”

Scott’s eyes bloom in panic like mandrakes under a worm moon. Fortunately for him, Melissa swoops in to save the day with her phone, and the photos are even from the camera’s photo roll, with the correct date-stamp and everything. Of course, that doesn’t _mean_ she didn’t just download and save a bunch of photos from the Internet, but if she did, she covered her tracks well.

“I’m sorry, I’m probably coming off kind of spastic right now,” Scott says as his mother returns to finding the dessert. He glances at Stiles, fidgeting with his fork, and then starts up and winces as the fork clangs loudly against the rim of his plate. Once he’s slapped the fork down, he winces again, and then he slumps in his chair and sighs. “I’m just—I am really, really glad to see you again, Stiles. And I know it was a long flight for you to get here, and I’m sorry it’s not been too great.”

“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours,” Stiles says, a little surprised at how forlorn the guy sounds. “I’ll admit to the occasional ADD diagnosis in the past, but even I can’t have gotten bored already.”

“Really?” Scott says, and his face lights up. Real, soft-glow backlighting, like his soul is honestly thrilled and you cannot fake that, and that does not make sense. Neither does the earnest whisper he uses. “Because I was worrying—I know we’re not anything like the East Coast, and you’ve been to all these cool places, I was actually just looking at your latest photos on Facebook right before you landed and Beacon Hills is—I like it here, but even I wouldn’t call it cool.”

“Oh, the Jakarta trip? Yeah, that was awesome, I got to check out this temple they built over a thousand years ago after a mysterious plague—that is. Sure, that stuff is fun, but I mean, they’re kind of business trips too,” Stiles says, hastily changing to a more dismissive tone as Scott starts looking wistful again. “I spend a lot of time catalogizing stuff and finding out I’m allergic to rare strains of library mold.”

“Well, I just want you to enjoy this,” Scott says. “I’m hoping you’ll, um, want to come back.”

It suddenly occurs to Stiles, looking at Scott’s hopeful smile, that his former and maybe-again friend is really paddling hard here, and not just because the water is deep and dark and could swallow a couple antediluvian civilizations without breaking a wave. Scott really is putting out the red carpet, as best he can, and…Stiles is curious as hell about it, but like his dad keeps telling him, sometimes switching off is a good idea. And hey, Stiles did just graduate college and all. He should be off the hook for at least a few months.

Of course, Stiles decides he’ll ease off on the probing and right then is when a loud smashing sound and then a gunshot come from the kitchen.

Scott jumps over the table. Legit jumps it from a sitting position, and clears it without rattling a single plate. That’s left to Stiles, who takes a table corner hard to the thigh and then limps after Scott, cursing under his breath, to find Melissa pointing a huge, nonstandard-issue gun at the shattered kitchen window while Allison, who’s magically armed herself with a small arsenal, is about to knock open the back door to the porch with a souped-up crossbow.

“Please tell me you’re not just going to say it was a raccoon,” Stiles says.

Melissa doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “Stiles, I want you to go back and sit down. You’ll be safe there and we won’t have to worry about you. We’ve got it—”

“That smells like one of the Thousand Young,” Stiles says, as a horrid, gut-wrenching, fetid stench comes in through the window. The kind of stench that picks at your most primal instincts, setting up red flags that stretch all the way back to the misty beginnings of civilization, when mankind still knew with visceral immediacy the strange and terrible dangers that lay in the hidden corners of the earth. Or so said his Intro to Cthulhic Chemistry I professor, and it’s such a good line that Stiles happily deploys it himself. “Mountain ash totally isn’t going to work on that, you’re just gonna have a pain vacuuming it all up later so Scott can actually use the backyard.”

Scott, Allison and Melissa, who are all gasping and gagging at the smell, turn and stare at him. Scott actually manages to lift his head the highest, which is pretty impressive considering Stiles can literally see the muscles in his throat trying to reverse their way out of his skin. Then he throws out an arm, blocking Allison as she swings around like she’s going to aim that explosive-tipped crossbow bolt at Stiles.

“What?” Scott chokes.

Melissa is not telegraphing nearly as much as Allison, with her gun still trained on whatever’s outside, but Stiles knows that glint in her eye very well, seeing as it’s the same look his dad gets whenever somebody threatens repercussions on Stiles if his dad doesn’t give out access to the University’s copy of the _Necronomicon_. He’s careful to slowly put up his empty hands. 

“Scott, you’re a werewolf,” Stiles says. He pauses, both so they can have a nice good think about accidental trigger fingers and he can finish surreptitiously scrawling protective sigils on the linoleum with the toe of his sneaker. He’s usually a fantastic no-look multi-tasker but that double-backwards curlicue, man, it’s a doozy. “Now, this might come as a surprise to you, but I really hope not, seeing as by your Instagram feed, you’ve been that way for a good six, seven years. I’m still debating whether it was sophomore year or junior, since conjunctivitis plus the wrong contact lenses prescription _can_ produce the same squinty sideways eyes of fire look, and your Facebook timeline doesn’t show any long breaks, like maybe you went for a couple weeks to hang with an uncle who just happens to have a conveniently isolated cabin—”

“What do you know about werewolves?” Allison snaps. “Who told you about them, and whose side are you on?”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Scott says, sliding his head in the way just as she lifts her crossbow bolt to clear his shoulder. He glances frantically between her and his mom, and then turns to Stiles. “Wait, wait, you—you know?”

“Confirmation, thank you,” Stiles says. Then it occurs to him that sounding self-congratulatory—which wasn’t actually what he meant, but he has a known issue with intent and actual tone mismatching—is not a good thing right now. “I mean, good. Werewolf. Yeah, werewolf, you, okay. That’s cool. It was either that or you’re a rare Valusian serpent-man variant and I hate those guys. I mean, I try not to be speciesist, but yeah. Screw you and your pre-meal chowdown pod-person mindscrews.”

Scott blinks rapidly, clearly attempting to follow that, and then manages to better the majority of Stiles’ fellow scholarship recipients by just junking his attempt and concentrating on what’s important to him. “How does my Instagram tell you that I’m a werewolf?”

“Sudden switch to profile-only or other poses where you’re not making eye-contact with the camera, _no_ night-time selfies whatsoever, followed by gradual reintegration of cloudy-night selfies, increased emphasis on meat in food photos, and following several accounts dedicated to live updates of moon phases and moon-related weather phenomenon,” Stiles rattles off. “Also, _duck_.”

Stiles is completely prepared for them to not listen to him, so it’s honestly a mindblower when all three of them _do_. He stares at them staring at him and then recalls himself and throws up his hands in a warding gesture from the Armitage Correspondence, just as something long and thin and unnecessarily slimy tries to spear through the window.

The tentacular whatever sizzles and disappears and is replaced by a disgusting burned smell so strong that they all end up taking a second. Even Stiles, who likes to think his nose has an impenetrable layer of cynicism at this point, stuffs his face into the collar of his shirt and takes refuge in the fresh-breeze scent of whatever detergent Scott uses.

When he pulls his head back out, the back door is open and Allison is standing halfway out on the back porch, crossbow angled at something on the porch in front of her, with an expression of determination crossed with a very much still-live struggle to not throw up on herself. Scott’s sort of bouncing between her and attempting to call somebody on his phone, which is how Melissa manages to come out of nowhere to grab Stiles up by the front of his shirt. She is really strong for a petite woman, and also, she still has that gun.

“Stiles,” she says, looking hard into Stiles’ face. “Do you, in any way, shape, or form, want to hurt my son?”

“What? No, werewolves are fine, they’re chaotic neutral and domestic on top of that,” Stiles says.

Melissa blinks once, then does the Scott thing and gives up on trying to understand him in favor of getting actual information. She’s a lot quicker and more intimidating than her son is about it. “Okay, then do you want to _change_ my son into anything? I don’t care what it is, human again, a better werewolf, whatever you think _that_ means—”

“Wow, look, let’s just—I literally just met the guy after years of separation and obviously, a lot of personal growth in the meantime,” Stiles yelps. “What kind of lunatic agenda-imposers do you have running around here anyway?”

Unsmiling, Melissa continues to stare down into Stiles’ soul, leaving several serious burns on its pride. Then she nods tightly, releases him, and points at the broken window. “Good, you always were a handful, but I also could always count on you to look after Scott. Now, what the hell was that, what did you do, and how fast can the rest of us learn how to do that?”

Stiles still feels a little yelpy, and he’s not too sure it’s the tendency towards instability and panic that close proximity to a Great Old One tends to bring. “Um, again, let’s just…back this up a little. First, do we need corpse-dispos—”

“There’s a slime trail but no body,” Allison calls back.

“Right, well, second, just _how_ long have you been having encounters?” Stiles asks.

“Okay,” Scott says just then. “Deaton says he’s ready when you are.”

“Great,” Melissa mutters. She glances off to the counter, where a truly magnificent-looking flan is waiting, and then she sighs and puts the safety back on her gun. And in an amazing power move, scoops up the flan platter before jerking her chin at Stiles. “Scott, you and him figure out how to get samples for Deaton. Allison, get back in, I need you to call your dad and Laura. Everyone, we’re in the car in ten _tops_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valusian serpent-people actually originated in Robert E. Howard's _Conan_ stories, which he later linked up to the Cthulhu Mythos.


	2. Chapter 2

Deaton is Scott’s boss and Deaton appreciates a good homemade flan. Deaton will smile and look genuinely delighted about it, and then eat it without batting an eye as he leads them into a room containing two horribly mangled deer corpses. After that, the revelation that he’s a druid and is serving as the local pack’s Emissary is basically a gimme.

He seems like a decently knowledgeable guy, if a little weirdly accepting of Scott’s rec when it comes to new people—not that Stiles is dinging Scott or anything, but Stiles has been informed that although Scott _is_ an alpha, he’s not _the_ alpha, and him and the local pack are it’s complicated with a side of hey, we’re here now! So why Scott and Deaton are the kind of buds who call each other about suspicious supernatural animal deaths is, Deaton’s blandly smiling face pronounces, very much TBD. But he does agree that it can’t hurt to let Stiles do his own examination of the bodies and also, by the way, how did Stiles happen to learn about the supernatural?

“Well, that is a super-long story and I have this promise to my dad I need to keep, along with a couple of oaths to various scary secret societies, but anyway, let’s skip to I just graduated from Miskatonic University,” Stiles says, snagging a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter. He pulls them on and then walks around the table, grabbing safety glasses and scalpels and basically anything that will distract the others from noticing he’s giving the deer a serious visual scan. “Double majored in Esoteric Folklore and Xenochemistry with a minor in Eldritch Horrors—”

Deaton pulls up suddenly. “You’re a Miskatonic graduate?” he says, shoving a drawer shut.

Stiles nods, then thinks of something better and pulls out his phone. He palms the back of its case for a second, then holds it up to reveal the full Miskatonic seal on the phone case, complete with the little tentacle-y bits.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Deaton says, with a sigh so deep that he has to catch himself against the counter. Then he turns to Scott. “If I’d had any idea we had a line to a specialist—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Allison says. “Just—look, no offense, Stiles, but we just met and my family’s been at this for generations, and we didn’t have anything on Miskatonic University, so honestly, I thought it was a scam—”

“Yeah, well, I was halfway to thinking you had Scott either under blackmail or some sick mind-control thing, given your last name, but I figured I’d give _you_ the benefit of the doubt and show up and see,” Stiles can’t help retorting.

He’s just annoyed because seriously, what is it with experienced supernatural types finding something weird and going, nah, can’t be real? Just because it doesn’t fit your mythos doesn’t mean it can’t exist, because _supernatural_. Allison, however, goes white in the face and actually steps backward, like Stiles hit her. Her hand goes out and Scott grabs it, then manfully but very visibly struggles not to wince at her grip.

“Allison and her father have rejected the traditional Argent code,” Melissa breaks in, firmly and calmly and somehow communicating that neutral in this case means she will be equally not putting up with shit from all sides. “They wouldn’t still be in town otherwise.”

“Okay, look, obviously, lots of history I’m not up on. I’m just saying, how about we try not to jump to the evil conclusion first thing,” Stiles says. He looks at Allison, and after a second she nods. She’s still not meeting his eyes, but she relaxes the death-grip on Scott’s hand. “So. Miskatonic U. Hallowed be thy octopi, you never know when they’ll show up in the family tree. It’s a really, really private institution, and honestly, when you get down to it, super-nationalistic, so I’m not that surprised they wouldn’t advertise to a France-based family, but the good doctor here obviously knows about it.”

Deaton starts a little, then offers up a deprecating smile. “Yes. Yes, I do, and its reputation is unparalleled for those who have, ah, heard of it, and particularly in this sort of matter.”

Melissa’s been watching Allison with a little concern, but she takes a moment to direct a gimlet-eyed stare at Deaton. “And when were you going to mention this? Before these mangled deer started turning into mangled joggers, I hope?”

“Well, immediately, if I’d had any idea it was even an option,” Deaton says, looking mildly intimidated. The ‘mildly’ makes Stiles note he must have better resources than his first impression indicates. “I didn’t know we had a contact there, and unfortunately, Miskatonic is very selective about who they chose to assist, and they normally won’t respond to druid communications.”

“Why not?” Scott says.

“There was this druid who screwed up a couple joint archaeological expeditions in England, way back in the nineteen-thirties,” Stiles says. “Cannibalism and insanity and so forth. So, you know, once bitten and all that.”

Deaton sighs, which, credit to him, is a pretty restrained response to what was not Stiles’ best riff ever. “Yes, admittance standards were a little lax due to manpower shortages after the first World War. But anyway, I’m very glad for your assistance now. I’ve done what I can, but this honestly isn’t close to my specialty.”

“Well, fine, so long as we’re all working to stop this from getting worse,” Melissa says. She comes up to the table, coughs a little as the corpse puts up a thick whiff of Great Old One stench, and then jerks her head at it. “And if someone will actually tell me what this is, since I’ve been working overtime for a straight week on it.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” Stiles says. He drops his handful of tools and starts pointing out wounds on the deer’s chest and belly. “So the sucker punctures, and these crush marks and those semi-dissolved areas, these are all hallmarks of a Shub-Niggurath offspring. Probably not that old—week sounds about right, is that when the first body turned up?”

Melissa nods. “Smaller animals. A couple dogs people found in the preserve.”

“Yeah, it’s still working up to people, but if we get it before it does, shouldn’t be a big deal to banish,” Stiles says. “I just need—”

“What’s a Shub-Niggurath, and why don’t those show up in my family’s chronicles?” Alllison asks. She’s still a little tense, although when she looks at Stiles, she’s making an effort to meet his eyes. “It’s just we’ve been doing this for literally centuries, and if there’s something we don’t know about…”

“A Shub-Niggurath is a thing that has two professorships dedicated to it at the University, and it’s probably in your family’s books somewhere, filed under insane ravings that nobody can understand,” Stiles says. He holds up his hand before she can get snippy again. “I’m not being sarcastic, okay? That’s what it is. It’s a big, icky, alien who drives people crazy so it’s legit difficult to tell when it’s been around versus well, just people going crazy. But anyway, the important thing is, I know how to get rid of its babies and it. I just need to know who called it up in the first place.”

Weirdly enough, everybody brightens a little bit at that. Well, maybe ‘brighten’ is the wrong word, but they definitely stop looking like they’re reaching for negative coping methods to deal with the unknown. “Called it up?” Scott says. “So this thing is like a demon?”

“No, it’s not, and if you treat it like a demon, you’re just going to—” Stiles stops himself, remembering that one, he’s set to stay in Scott’s spare bedroom for the next two weeks and two, Scott is his old best friend, not his dumbass legacy field lab partner “—okay, irrelevant minutiae. Yeah, for our purposes of getting rid of it, it’s like a demon, some asshole called it here and as soon as we figure out who it is, I can figure out what banishing chant to do. Or where they did the calling from. That’s not as good, but it’ll work too.”

“Great,” Allison says. She’s tapping at her phone. “Dad was working on that, he had a couple leads…he says meet us at the preserve’s southwest entrance in an hour. Is that enough time?”

“That should be fine,” Melissa says, her own phone out. She walks off into the other room, saying something about having the police block off the roads for them. Then she walks back in, the leftover flan in her hand.

“Oh, I’ll get that,” Scott hastily says, taking it from her. 

She gives him a distracted smile, which he returns, and then snags his arm as he starts to turn. “Scott,” she says sharply, looking him in the eye. “Scott. Be _careful_.”

“I will, Mom, I always am,” Scott says earnestly.

Melissa looks skeptical but fond anyway. She tugs his arm a little, then puts her arm up to scuff his hair. Then gives his head a push so that he moves away from her. Her call goes through and she starts talking to a Deputy Parrish, zigzagging so that when Stiles moves out of her way, she ends up blocking him from escaping over to Scott and Allison.

“And you,” she says, laying the phone against her shoulder. “I remember you as a kid, Stiles. I don’t care how many years it’s been, the kinds of stuff you got up to then…just don’t make me have to give your dad a bad-news call, all right?”

Then she throws her arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. Stiles had been completely prepped to deny all allegations and where he couldn’t deny, throw out a justifications, but the hug just knocks him off his feet. Literally off his feet—Melissa has really been working those upper-arm muscles and he feels no shame about the squawk he makes, grabbing at the table and steadying himself.

“Don’t get into trouble you’ll regret,” Melissa says, ruffling his hair. “I missed you, you little walking disaster zone, I don’t want to see you leave again already.”

Then she walks off. Stiles coughs into his hand, tugs his shirt straight, and then runs his hand over the top of his head. Then he looks at Scott. “Your mom does the best guilt trips.”

“She’s my mom,” Scott says proudly. He grins for another second, then shakes himself, glances at the dead deer, and assumes a determined pose. “Right. So we’ll head over to the preserve—”

“Actually, could we hit your place first?” Stiles says. “There’s some stuff I want to get out of my luggage.”

* * *

Deaton declines to catch a ride with them, since there really are patients of his who need a late-night feeding. He says he’ll handle all of that, so Stiles, Scott and Allison hop back into Scott’s car to head back to Scott and Allison’s apartment.

It’s a surprisingly quiet drive. Allison does ask a couple questions about how to deter one of the Thousand Young if you’re not in a position to banish it yet, but since the answer is, ‘you need to learn Aklo, otherwise run like hell,’ it’s a short conversation. Scott tries a couple times to bring up his mom’s cooking, and whether Stiles wants to eventually take some back to his dad, but he’s driving and he’s obviously on the lookout for danger, and even more obviously multi-tasking is not his wheelhouse. The second time he nearly runs a red light, Allison and Stiles both ask him to just drive.

Once they’re at the building, Scott stops halfway through locking the car, sniffs, and then asks if they can just wait a second. “I think I have to talk to somebody,” he mutters, looking a little annoyed. “It’ll be quick, be right back. You can go on up if you want.”

Which Stiles and Allison do, taking the outside staircase as they watch Scott slip through an adjoining alleyway and out into a small neighboring courtyard. “Werewolf stuff?” Stiles asks.

“It’s probably…yeah, that’s Isaac,” Allison says, as a tall blond man joins Scott. “He’s friendly.”

“Cool,” Stiles says. “But, um, not pack?”

“Well, if you trust me to tell you, they’re friends but the pack issue is more complicated since Scott isn’t the one who bit him.” It’s gotten a little nippy out and Allison has her coat-collar turned up, muffling her voice. She still comes off pretty acidic. “Isaac was on patrol tonight, he’s just checking in. He might want to come to the preserve with us.”

“Sure, more the merrier,” Stiles says.

She looks at him. “Really?”

They go up the last few steps and Allison emerges from her coat to unlock the hall door, and then, a few yards inside, the apartment door. As they go into the apartment, Stiles takes out his phone and pops on the wireless-modifier attachment, and casts a privacy spell. Three stories up definitely isn’t enough to get out of werewolf range.

Then he answers Allison’s question. “Honestly, no, not really. This isn’t amateur hour, people actually do end up insane, and the less ignorant bystanders you’ve got around, the better. And for the record, werewolf healing doesn’t fix mental issues. That said, I get this isn’t my town.”

Allison looks him over, unbuttoning her coat. Then she takes a seat on the couch and bends down to pull out a storage bin from underneath. The bin is heavy-duty plastic with metal chains, and when she gets the chains off, the inside consists of a very nice selection of custom crossbow bolts.

“I know you said they won’t work against the Thousand Young, but I figure it can’t hurt against the asshole who called them here,” she says.

“True that,” Stiles says, before popping into the guest room. “And like I said, your town.”

He takes out his laptop and a portable battery charger and carries them back into the other room. Since Allison’s on the couch, he takes the armchair. He hooks up his phone to his laptop and powers on the laptop and then—realizes he doesn’t have the wireless password.

“Iloveallison,” Allison tells him, flushing a little. “Scott looked so proud that he’d gotten the router and everything set up by himself that I didn’t have the heart to change it.”

“He’s a real sweetheart, isn’t he?” Stiles says.

Just making conversation, awkward as it is, because he’s been told many, many times that that is the way to properly functioning in society, but Allison gets tight-lipped again. She’s strapping bolts into some kind of carrying pouch and she does one more, then drops it and her hands to her lap.

“He is,” she says, looking straight at Stiles. “He really is. And I know what you’ve heard about my family, and the truth is just as bad. But I want you to know that I won’t ever try to kill him just for being a werewolf.”

“Okay,” Stiles says after a long silence. Mostly because she keeps looking at him like he needs to say something, and then she goes and looks disappointed that that’s all she gets. “Well, look, I’m generally not for random murder, and I’m obviously going to feel pretty friendly towards a guy who hasn’t seen me in almost ten years but who still offers to let me crash with him. But it’s not like I know you people or your situation.”

“You figured out he was a werewolf before—you knew before you even got here, didn’t you?” Allison points out. “And you know about my family.”

Stiles makes a face. And then doubles it as his stupid phone blinks with an ‘insufficient memory’ message. He sighs and starts shifting his music collection into the cloud for the time being. Stupid uncompressible high-def scans of certain critical reference books located in Eastern Europe. “Well, yeah, I did your basic background check. But come on, Scott’s a nice guy but he’s really not that great at hiding, is he?”

“No,” Allison sighs, with more than a little long-standing frustration. “No, he’s not. I wish—but Scott’s Scott.”

“I looked up things about you all, but if thirty credits of Eldritch Horrors taught me anything, it’s that textual research and field research are completely different beasts,” Stiles adds after a second. “Besides, I’m pretty sure some stuff was changed to protect the furry. I mean, did you two really meet because he sleepwalked into your backyard?”

Allison suddenly grins. “Oh, that actually happened. It’s just—well, he was sleepwalking because he’d just been bitten, and I recognized the signs so I went down to help him, and—”

“You went down to _help_?” Stiles says.

Her grin fades. She presses her lips together, then quickly rolls up the pouch in her lap and ties it shut. Then she pulls out a rubber band from her pocket and starts to sleek her hair back from her face into a ponytail. “Yes. I did. Because Dad and I were already not okay with the old family code, and the whole reason we’d moved into town was because we’re trying to make sure werewolves get help before they’re forced to turn into killers.”

“So you’re working with the local pack, then?” Stiles asks.

“We…share information sometimes,” Allison says carefully. “We all live here and we try to respect each other.”

“But it’s complicated, right,” Stiles says. Then shrugs, because interesting but again, he doesn’t have skin in the game.

Allison makes an agreeing noise and continues to tie back her hair. Then her phone beeps and she pulls it out to check the message. From the way she softens, Stiles guesses it’s Scott and he takes down the privacy ward. Just in time, since Scott walks in a couple minutes later.

“So double major in Esoteric Folklore and Xenochemistry with a minor in Horrors,” Allison is saying. “That sounds…that sounds hard.”

“Minor in _Eldritch_ Horrors, and that one would’ve been a triple major, but my dad said no to the lab course where you go to the secret city in Antarctica to study the revolt of the Shoggoths against the Old Ones,” Stiles says. “Something about wanting to make sure I could still get through a cocktail party without making everybody run away.”

Scott stops in the middle of whatever vaguely friendly thing he’d been about to say. He cocks his head, looking back and forth between them, and then he draws himself up, but Allison gets in first.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get the name wrong,” Allison says, and she does seem like she means it. “It’s…it’s really weird—not in a bad way, I’m not being mean now—it’s just the idea that there’s a whole university for that kind of thing. My parents taught me, and everybody I’ve met so far seems to get the same kind of homeschooling. Or they have to figure it out themselves, like Scott.”

“Hey, you helped too,” Scott says, smiling at her.

“I _tried_ ,” Allison snorts. “If Dad had been a little less pigheaded about La—anyway, was that Isaac?”

Scott glances at Stiles but doesn’t pause. “Yeah. Isaac’s another werewolf and—” he stops as Allison tells him she already updated Stiles on that one “—well, he was just coming to say that the track from my mom’s house goes into the preserve. But they lost it a couple hundred yards in, said it dropped into a storm drain and they couldn’t figure out which way the smell was going.”

“But you found a track in the first place,” Stiles says. “That’s great, that’ll help narrow things down.”

“Yeah, that’s what, er, your dad says,” Scott says, looking at Allison. “He checked the plotting to see where they’re all centering on—”

“You’ve got more tracks? Plotted out? Notes, even?” Stiles says. He might be a tad excited. But amateur hour or not, he appreciates it when he doesn’t actually have to explain the basics of monster-hunting to people.

Allison looks at him like it’s somehow bizarre that this is unusual. “Yeah, Dad’s been running this as close to a hunt as he can, even if we’ve been in the dark. Anyway, let me guess—Nemeton?”

Scott’s face screws up. “Nemeton,” he agrees.

“Nemeton?” Stiles says. “Wow, this is going to be _so_ much easier than I thought. Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

At the preserve, they’re met by Allison’s father, a lean, grizzled man in a beaten work coat and heavy hiking boots who Stiles guesses would be about the age of Stiles’ own father if the guy stopped scowling. He’s got a high-powered, very expensive-looking rifle and a map showing the locations of bodies, tracks, and now that somebody’s told him to look for them, cases where people have suffered hallucinations or freak-outs in the past week. “I was still going through the news, and Melissa said she’s getting in touch with the psych unit at the hospital,” he says, mostly to Scott. “But that’s going to take a while.”

“Well, anyway, the pattern’s pretty clear, and besides, if you have a Nemeton _and_ a Cthulhic infestation in the same town, there’s no way that the Nemeton isn’t going to be involved,” Stiles says, peering at the map with his phone on flashlight mode. “I bet if we stake out the Nemeton, the jerk who started all of this will eventually show up too.”

Chris Argent doesn’t even look smug. “We’ve had a round-the-clock watch on the Nemeton since this started and nobody’s come near it.”

“Most weird things around here end up connected to it, so we installed security cameras around it a couple years ago,” Scott explains, which both helps Stiles with the background and gives him a second to get his ego over getting flattened by actual competence. “And every night patrol hits it. Actually, we even worked with the rangers to get that part of the park declared off-limits to hikers.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “But the tracks still all go towards it.”

Allison twists around from her seat in shotgun of her father’s SUV. “But we haven’t found dead animals at it, or seen any signs of these…what did you call it? Thoo—”

“Cthulhic,” Stiles corrects her, squinting at the map. “Yeah, but I mean, Nemeton, even if it’s not actively messing with you, it’s still going to be a big ol’ power beacon and an obvious entry point, so—”

“Fuck!” Chris hisses, slamming on the brakes. Then he abruptly swerves the car in a tight U-turn.

Stiles has his seatbelt on, but he still gets bounced around pretty hard. His head knocks into the handhold above the window and he grabs at it to keep from hitting it again, and is still hanging from it when they whizz by a dark figure standing by the side of the road. He doesn’t get much of a look at it, but it’s standing on two legs, has an impressive shoulder spread, is wearing a familiar-looking v-neck and has furry hands ending in sharp claws.

Then the SUV shoots forward over something lumpy. It continues on for maybe fifty yards before Chris finally stops it. He and Allison swing out before the car even stops rocking, weapons out, alert and almost predatory in their concentration, moving in an impressively synchronized flanking formation.

“Goddamn it,” Chris says.

Stiles had tried to hurry out too, but Scott had been in the way and had made himself stay in the way, so Stiles had been forced to basically hang off Scott’s shoulder for a view. But now Chris lowers his rifle, glaring at something off to the side of the road.

“You’re supposed to _call in,_ ” Chris is grumbling, his gaze leveled a little too far into the forest for him to be talking to himself.

The figure is gone, but stretched over the road, just ahead of where they turned off, is a huge, intricate trapezoidal design painted in what looks like blood. Scott sniffs and mumbles chicken in a surprised tone, and when Stiles searches around, he finds a circular depression in the ground, just the right size for a bucket, and an empty coffee cup. When Scott comes up, he hands over the cup and Scott sniffs at it and then sighs.

“Flat white, almond milk, extra whip,” Scott says.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay. Coffee snobbery aside, I thought you people didn’t know anything about the Great Old Ones. Because that there, that’s clearly somebody who knows stuff.”

“We just know what Deaton’s managed to find, which even he says isn’t much,” Chris says, frowning. Then he comes to look at the road with Stiles. “Well, if anybody would, it would be…but Laura said he hasn’t come out of the house since Wednesday. He should be gloating his ass off if he really does know.”

Allison already has her phone out. “I’m calling Laura,” she says, a little more exasperated than the situation really seems to call for. “If those people are yanking us around _again_ …Scott, I know, but they really just don’t ever—it’s not even my family at this point, I think they just like doing it.”

Stiles debates with himself, then clears his throat. “Um. Hey. So…I completely admit I’m lost right now, but would it be out of line to point out we’re looking for an evil magic-doing person, and now we’ve just—”

The ground and sky suddenly crash together, and Stiles finds himself on his hands and knees, desperately clinging to the dirt as aftershocks continue to rattle around him, through him. Earthquake, he thinks. Wow, his first earthquake since his family had left California and honestly, he could have done without that nostalgia trip.

“It’s gone!” Scott yells.

Stiles is still wondering whether it’s a good time to try standing up, but the other man sounds so horrified that he raises his head. Scott’s wolfed out, going by the change in his silhouette, and has his claws jammed into a tree as he waves wildly at something ahead of them.

“The Nemeton!” Scott shouts. “It’s gone!”

“What?” Chris grunts, somewhere to Stiles’ left.

Scott starts to yell an answer, but then doubles over in a fit of choking. A second later, the smell hits the rest of them. It’s like a steel-toed kick directly to the gut and Stiles doesn’t even try to fight it, just regretfully aims his head to clear his toes as he throws up Melissa’s home cooking.

He gets moving at the same time, keeping himself twisted sideway so the vomit doesn’t get on him. Staggers up till he’s got to Scott and then he grabs Scott’s shoulders, both for support and so that he can push the man out of the way. He’s ready to spit out incantations, nausea or no nausea, but what he sees just makes him freeze in place.

At first glance, it looks like a tree. A big old gnarly oak, just what you’d think for a Nemeton. But then you realize that the branches don’t have any leaves on them, even though it’s the start of summer. And then the branches start _squirming_. Not waving, not rustling, but squirming, coiling and uncoiling, all slick and shiny like ocean scum, and at the tips are little flexing things that eventually move into the moonlight to reveal _mouths_ —

And then the whole thing just drops out of sight. Withdraws, actually, pulling in its tentacles one by one till it resembles some kind of pulsing stump, like the amputated end of something much, much bigger. Then even that slides beneath the ground with a sick squashing noise. And suddenly, they’re just looking at a small clearing, a little slimy, but otherwise you’d never know anything had ever been there. No stump or any other sign of a tree.

“What—what was that?” Chris says in a hoarse whisper. He’s dragged himself up, Allison just a little behind, both of them pinching at their lips like they’re still in a death-duel with nausea. “What happened?”

“That was Shub-Niggurath,” Stiles says. “And I think it just ate the Nemeton.”

It’s silent for a second. Then Allison bends over and throws up. Scott immediately turns to her, but she pushes him away, wiping at her mouth with the back of his hand. “Does that—that mean it’s not the Nemeton?”

“Um,” Stiles says. “Um. No. I mean, yeah. I mean, I think whoever’s doing this just made sure it will _not_ be the Nemeton in charge here. Um, anyway, I…think we should go somewhere well-ventilated and lighted and look at that map again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The screwed up joint expeditions line is a loose reference to _The Rats in the Walls_ by HP Lovecraft.
> 
> I bet you all thought there was going to be Nemeton tie-in. Nope. While I do reuse ideas from story to story, I try not to do it every single time, and as much as I love the Nemeton, it's time for a different tack.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles was thinking somewhere in town, but they end up going to this giant Victorianesque mansion on the edge of the preserve. Chris does think to ask whether they’re too close, but Stiles consults his phone apps and admits they’re probably cool, so Chris drives up to the front door.

“If you end up needing supplies, this is the closest,” is how Chris explains it.

“Okay,” Stiles says, still looking at the house. “Hey, isn’t this—wasn’t this the old Hale place?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, in a bit of an odd tone.

There is some very interesting runework scrolling around the eaves of the front porch, Stiles notes as they go up the steps. “This looks a lot nicer than I remember. Seeing as I’m ninety-nine percent sure this was a burned-up murder site the last time I was in town.”

“Yeah, it was, we fixed it,” says a new person. A woman, very attractive, vaguely feral around the big white teeth she’s using to smile at Stiles at, late twenties.

“Hi, Laura, this is Stiles,” Scott says. “My _friend_.”

Stiles looks at Scott, who’s slid in slightly ahead of him, with the spread shoulders and lifted chin and carefully planted feet. Then he looks at this Laura. “Are you a Hale? And a werewolf?”

“Yup double,” Laura says. She still looks a little snarly. “You’re the specialist Alan called about earlier?”

“Well, Miskatonic University _did_ give me a bachelor’s in Esoteric Folklore and Xenochemistry, _with_ a minor in Eldritch Horrors,” Stiles says. “Wanna talk about it?”

Laura considers this more than she’s considering Scott, then nods and lets them into the house.

People have to make calls—Chris to Melissa, Laura to pack members—so Scott and Allison fill him in really quickly on Laura in the meantime. She’s the current pack alpha and lives in the house, along with assorted pack members, but they all seem to be out at the moment. The fire had been the Argents’ fault—Stiles notes Allison doesn’t say ‘other’ Argents or use language like that—but Chris had been against it and had paid a call on Laura afterward, and the two of them had been working together ever since.

“She tries, anyway,” Allison concludes, with less than full-hearted enthusiasm.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but Allison doesn’t elaborate on that obvious teaser, just turns around as the others come into the room where Stiles has the map on the table. “All right, Miskatonic guy, spill,” Laura says.

“Hey, it’s not like I’ve been holding back here. I just _got_ here,” Stiles says, but he already knows it’s a losing protest. He rolls his eyes at her eye-glow, pulls Scott back before he can get in Laura’s face, and nods at the map. “Okay. So initial theory was, there’s a Nemeton in town, you’re an evil wizard, you’re obviously gonna use the Nemeton in your evil plan to raise the Great Old Ones. Plan A would’ve been reverse it and use the Nemeton to put them back down, but the Nemeton’s been eaten so plan is out and theory is wrong.”

“Melissa says she’s still looking into it, but all the new psych patients have been talking about the mother and her ravenous young, and how when they rise the world shall be scoured of fools who cannot recognize true greatness,” Chris reports from the doorway, where he’s juggling a couple phones.

Stiles sighs. “Thanks, but that sounds pretty generic. I think we have to go back to the other option and find the evil wizard. Or witch, sorry, I should be evenhanded, even though statistically it’s more likely—okay, back to the map. Evil person is smart enough to eliminate potential threats first, so the Nemeton’s gone. Unless you guys are hiding more than one of those, the next one probably is going to be the person they think is most likely to stop them.”

“But they already did that,” Allison says. “They were at Scott’s mom’s house earlier.”

Chris raises his hand again, just as Scott’s eyes start to widen. “Deaton’s with her, Scott,” he says. “Says he’ll stick with her till this is done.”

“So they’re going to come back now that the Nemeton’s done, so we should head on back there,” Stiles says. “When the evil wizard or witch show up—”

“Back where?” Laura says.

“Scott’s mom’s house,” Stiles says.

Laura blinks. “Oh. Oh, okay, I can see why you’d think that, Melissa _is_ on the ball, but they’re not going there when Scott’s here.”

“Because…you think they were really targeting Scott,” Stiles parses after a second.

“Everybody goes after Scott,” Allison says, both proud and worried. She takes Scott’s hand while Scott attempts to figure out whether he can, in fact, use all the blood in his body to blush. “If it’s not the Nemeton, it’s him. Or it’s—”

“Derek’s still in New York, and I told him to stay put till we’re done here,” Laura says sharply.

She and Allison get into a little staring match, which seems to disturb both Chris and Scott, but neither of the men interrupt it. Stiles ends up having to flap the map against the table to get them to look back at him. “Okay, so they’re after Scott. So any guesses about who it is?” Stiles says. “Scott, names? And now is not the time to be polite, all right, if I’m gonna seal up the doors, I need to know who’s got the key. So who hates you enough to sic extradimensional entities on you?”

Scott doesn’t answer. Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh and he’s about to remind the other man that they may have just had a run-in with one potential candidate when he suddenly realizes Scott isn’t stalling. Actually, Scott’s thinking very hard.

“There was—” Scott mutters.

“He’s not any good at magic,” Allison immediately says. “What about—”

“Danny says he got over it, and I trust Danny,” Scott says. “It could be—”

“She’s dead.” Allison looks embarrassed but unrepentant. “Dad and I caught her at it again and we all agreed, Scott, _one_ last chance.”

They go on like this for several minutes and show no signs of winding down. “Just how many people hate you?” Stiles blurts out.

“Well, he’s the resident hero, so a lot,” Laura says, while Scott tries to die of blushing again. She seems torn between amusement and deep-seated resignation.

Stiles tries to reconcile this with the Scott he used to know plus the bits of Scott now he’s seen, then pushes that aside. When confused, focus on the logistics, as his dad has always insisted. “Fine. How many of these people are actually in town right now?”

Scott and Allison go back to looking at each other. Beyond them, Chris has a distant look on his face and is moving his mouth enough so that Stiles can figure out the man is doing a silent count.

Stiles gives into the urge to press his hand over his face. “Okay, okay, never mind that. Let’s go back to the evidence. It’s somebody who could get in near the Nemeton without you people or your surveillance gear noticing. There was that werewolf drawing things in blood on the road—”

“Werewolf?” Laura snaps, straightening up. “What werewolf?”

“That was just Peter,” Chris says at the same time. “I don’t like him, but I don’t think he’s—”

“My ears are tingling, somebody _must_ be telling tall tales about me,” comes a purring tenor voice from the hall.

A second later, in stalks the man who’d talked with Melissa on the porch, flashing the same man-cleavage from the side of the road. He’s smiling at everybody like he’s delighted that they’re all doing variations on the ‘God, not now’ face. He’s also got bloody nails and a yellowed, old-looking book with sinister stained-leather covers tucked under one arm.

“They think you’re evil again,” Laura says, giving him a disapproving look. “And I have no idea what you’ve been doing for the last three hours, which doesn’t help, _uncle_.”

“I left a very detailed note on the fridge, _niece_ ,” ‘uncle’ Peter says, with an even more charming smile. “Right next to the printout of the part of the park I needed people to stay out of so I could deal with this ridiculousness before some moronic marathon trainer ran right into the jaws of Yog-Sothoth.”

“So you know Cthulhic mythos, you’ve been doing your own thing, and do you like Scott?” Stiles asks, pulling out his phone.

Peter startles slightly out of his glaring contest with Laura, then turns to look at Stiles with an interest that feels more than a little like a warm, vaguely tickly hand brushing uncomfortably close to harassment. “Scott? Well, I suppose he’s turned out all right, for someone who nearly had us all set on fire again, regularly insists on throwing us into mortal danger, and whose only defense against accidentally revealing werewolves to the world at large is his inexplicable ability to mimic a wounded puppy. Since you’re asking…”

“That’s Stiles, the best friend he’s been going on about,” Laura informs him.

“Ah. Stiles. I’d come over to shake your hand, but I’m more interested in seeing which exorcism rite you decide to use on me,” Peter says, craning his head around to look at Stiles’ phone. When Stiles can’t help jerking it defensively close to the chest, the guy smirks and lets Scott push him back. “I will say that Scott’s mother is a _lovely_ woman, so he does have that going for him.”

“He also isn’t on a first-name basis with every dodgy mage out there, if you want to talk about getting us in trouble,” Allison snaps. “Frankly, I _would_ believe it if you were the evil wizard calling up all these things, except—”

“Except that these ‘things’ tend to bring about a collapse of civilization, and that seems like a complete misstep for someone with my set of tastes?” Peter says in a withering tone. “I assure you, Miss Argent, if I wanted to wipe out my enemies, I wouldn’t use something that doesn’t appreciate the value of service workers still sane enough to put together a decent latte.”

“He doesn’t really like me, but he doesn’t try to kill me. Not really,” Scott mutters to Stiles.

“I think I got that,” Stiles mutters back. He’s still got his finger on the counter-incantation app, but Peter’s sarcasm is a little too on-the-nose for him to be the kind of stupid evil who walks right in. Also, he’s not totally sure, but he thinks that…“Is that the _Sussex_ edition? Are you a complete idiot?”

Peter breaks off from his lecture about the benefits of modern Western civilization in the food and beverage area and redirects that withering look at Stiles. “Excuse me? Because I do seem to be the only person in this room who has any idea of what’s mauling the wildlife.”

“Uh, no, actually, I know too. Immature Thousand Young and please, _please_ tell me you weren’t trying to do anything with that book,” Stiles says. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and slopes around Scott so when Peter jabs the book indignantly in his direction, he can grab it away and get a better look. “Oh, my God, it is. It’s the Sussex edition and—and what the _hell_ is this? Are you serious? You’re actually using the goddamn _Sussex edition_ as reprinted by some Canadian press?”

“What’s the Sussex edition and how long do we have to fix it?” Chris says, stepping forward.

Sensible response, but it’s basically obliterated by Peter smiling widely enough to bare his fangs, then swiping at Stiles. When Stiles dances back behind Scott, still flipping through the book, Peter snarls and he and Scott get into some kind of scuffle, which Stiles is ignoring because Jesus. He only _wishes_ this was just some bored goth kids messing around with an Ouija board and unleashing a portal to the angry dead.

“Well, I’m sure at your age you know _all_ about such things, but—Scott—Scott, I know I’m normally amused by the silly little hijinks of you and your ill-informed friends,” Peter’s hissing. “But—”

“Stop—back off—Stiles is my _friend_ , if you hurt him—” Scott snarls back.

“Godda—Peter! McCall! Is this really what we need right now?” Laura yells. She’s sounding pretty baritone and wolfy too. “And Stiles, I don’t care if you’re Scott’s long-lost smart twin, just cut it with the snippy comments and tell us—”

“Oh, right, so you won’t listen to me, but you’ll listen to a little boy who read a Lovecraft anthology _once_ and thinks he’s an expert,” Peter snaps.

Stiles thinks about beating his head in with the book, and then snaps it shut and glares up at them all. “Okay, assholes, listen, I have a fucking bachelors from Miskatonic U in Esoteric Folklore and Xenochemistry, minoring in Eldritch goddamn Horrors, and that means that I’m more qualified in this bullshit than ninety-nine percent of the general population, not to mention my idea of a rapid response is _not_ family bickering and I _told_ you, find the evil wizard! That’s not that hard! These guys run around _telling_ you they’re evil cultist magicians, just how many of those can you have—”

The lights go off. It’s nearly pitch-black in the house, except for weird little glowy spots sprinkled around the room that, once Stiles’ eyes have adjusted, he realizes are eyes.

“Peter,” Laura says suddenly, in the very calm tone of the imminently violent. “What were you doing?”

“If it’s still eating deer, it can’t be that old,” Peter says. “I was luring it to the Nemeton so we could have them destroy each other. Which you could have figured out if you’d looked at what I was actually doing at the road.”

“Yeah, well, I did, and that’s not the sigil for attracting it, that’s the sigil for attracting worshippers,” Stiles says. “See, this is what I mean, the Sussex edition has so many typos it’s almost like it’s boobytrapped on purp—”

“Guys,” Scott says urgently. “Guys, there are way too many eyes—”

It is a little confusing. Well, a lot confusing. There are screams and howls and crashes and wet ripping noises, and then something rushes Stiles and knocks him over. He’s already trying to get down to the floor, since whatever’s happening, he figures smaller targets are better, so he ends up tangled in whoever it is and falling hard into a piece of furniture, part of which smacks his head. And then he’s out.

* * *

“… _lä! lä!_ ” goes humming all around Stiles. “ _lä! lä! The Black Goat! The Black Goat with a Thousand Young!_ ”

“For the record,” says a voice Stiles tentatively identifies as Peter’s. “I certainly wasn’t _satisfied_ with the Sussex edition, but you try and get hold of a decent copy of the _Necronomicon_ in two days while living on the West Coast.”

“I don’t have to, I have my student login and the university’s digital archives,” Stiles grunts. His head hurts. His dad’s going to be so pissed off when the claim on their travel insurance comes up, he thinks.

He’s lying somewhere dark but relatively dry and not smelling like a sewer, even if the ground under him is pretty stony. Somebody, presumably Peter, is shuffling around next to him, but not getting very far with it. Probably because they’re tied up like Stiles is.

“This is rope,” Stiles says, tugging at his hands. “Aren’t you a werewolf?”

He gets an elbow and some other hard body part in the back, painfully near the kidney, and then gets shoved over so that he’s facing Peter, who’s worked his back up against the wall but who is definitely not busting the ropes wrapped around him, despite the impressively-bulging muscles. “Yes, I am, and I _still_ can’t get out of these,” Peter hisses at him, eyes glowing madly, lisping slightly like somebody with really big, pointy teeth. “Also, those cultists—yes?”

Stiles squints at the hooded, robed, vaguely misshapen figures slowly circling something in the other room. “Yep. Just what kind of security system do you have on this place, anyway? And if it’s the same people who did the cameras on the Nemeton, I think I gotta rethink this whole theory about how easy it is to get access—”

“Shut up,” Peter says. He puts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling—they’re in a basement—and his lips purse together like he’s whistling, but no sound comes out. Well, none that Stiles can hear, but Peter cocks his head and frowns like he’s getting a reply. Then he sags in disgust. “Damn it. Well, the cavalry will be stuck upstairs for the time being, and that’s the family butchering table those cultists have out, and since I don’t see any deer in sight—”

“Makes sense,” Stiles says. “I mean, if they have half a brain, which, even if they look really mutated and ugly, that doesn’t actually correlate to intelligence, they’ll have figured out we’re the only two who know this stuff. So here, get me free.”

Peter frowns again, then bites down on a yelp and tries to jam his knees into Stiles’ ass as Stiles squirms backwards into his lap. Stiles rolls his eyes and makes sure he tramples Peter’s legs extra while he’s mashing himself up Peter’s front to get the ropes around his wrists to level with Peter’s face.

“Don’t bite off my fingers, okay, I need them for my phone because they didn’t take that, I can feel it in my pocket and I’ve got digital downloads of the incantations,” Stiles hisses. “Also, don’t fake like you can’t still get out the fangs, I saw them, and if you can’t make like Hulk, I’m pretty sure you can’t flex around to get yourself either, so this is the practical option and don’t be a whiner.”

Peter’s still wiggling around like he thinks there’s any comfortable way for Stiles to prop his ass on the man’s collarbone. “I want copies of these downloads,” he says.

Stiles stares at the cultists, because God, at least they have understandable motives. Brainwashed, apocalyptic motives, but you can understand them. “Are you actually bargaining when we’re about to be—look, I’ll sponsor you through the university research access program, but that’s all I really can do, all right? I’m not going to violate a Terms of Use that covers my next three reincarnations.”

“Next three…” Peter sounds mulish, but just then the chanting jacks up in intensity “…very well. And I’ll do my best to not bite anything I shouldn’t, but I can’t be held responsible if you’re the one putting your flesh into my mouth.”

“You are such an _asshole_ ,” Stiles spits out.

The only reason he doesn’t hip-check Peter in the face right then is Peter’s just glommed onto the rope around Stiles’ right wrist, and Stiles can feel a fang bumping into his tendon. So he swallows the rest of his retort and braces his feet against the floor, and just tries not to sway too much.

It’s hard. Peter feels more like he’s slurping noodles than chewing, what with all the head movements, and then he headbutts Stiles in the spine so Stiles almost loses his balance and impales himself on Peter’s knee. “Hold still,” Peter scolds, just after spitting a wad of rope fibers off to the side. “I can’t shift my fangs out as long as they usually are, I keep losing the rope when you move.”

“Yeah, I’m trying, all right? Sorry I’m not a champion squatter,” Stiles grunts. He really is, but even with Peter to lean against, most of his weight’s pushed forward on his thighs and they are slowly catching fire.

Peter sighs irritably, then hikes up and sinks in his teeth again. Stiles hears a fiber snap and twists his wrists, and gets about an inch more slack before the ropes pull tight again. He pushes his hands back towards Peter, but the other man suddenly swears and throws himself over onto his side, shoving Stiles down in a tumble at the same time.

Two of the cultists are walking over. The heavy robes make sure that the only hints of outlines Stiles gets are of disturbingly deviant, deformed forms: hunched backs, lopsided gaits, and near-skeletal hands reaching out with filthy, curling nails, covered in a skin that seems mottled over with dark marks closer to a fungus infection than, say, moles.

“Um, no, not me,” Stiles says as soon as the hands come out. “He’s the werewolf, he’s older, he’s going to have way more fuel potential. I’m, um, I have acid reflex and I used to be on ADD drugs and I still down tons of energy drinks and really, not the best nutritional diet, I’m gonna be so impure and I’m pretty sure he’s way, way more balanced in terms of vitamin content, I mean, just look at the guns there—”

He’s not exactly sure what Peter had been doing, but Peter is too busy with it to react till after the cultists rearrange themselves and seize him by the arms. “Stiles, you miserable little _shit_ ,” Peter snarls.

“I need my phone!” Stiles says, scooting clear of them. “Sorry!”

Peter stares at Stiles for another second, then wrenches heavily around as the cultists drag him towards the other room. He damn near gets his fangs into one’s arm, and then _does_ bite something through the other’s robe that leaves a spreading stain and deepens the thing’s limp. He’s writhing and kicking and howling the whole way, and despite not being able to fully shift into werewolf gear, he’s clearly making it a tough ride for the cultists.

Basically, Peter’s a great distraction. Stiles doesn’t even wait for them to fully disappear into the next room before he starts working at his half-severed bonds. A couple more fibers snap and then the rope’s loose enough that Stiles can pull it and his hands down his back, under his butt and around the bottoms of his feet without dislocating a shoulder. Then Stiles can see what he’s doing with the knots.

He gets them undone, then wrestles with the rope around his ankles, keeping half an ear on the chanting in the next room. It’s rising and falling with increasing frequency, so Stiles gives his immediate surroundings a quick look, then settles for a netless lacrosse stick. Then, phone in one hand, stick in the other, he charges into the next room, screaming in Aklo.

The cultists are already reeling away, grabbing at their heads, and a quick whack around the room with the stick gets them clear of the heavy wooden table set up in the middle. And—Stiles falters briefly, but a recovering cultist grabs at him, so he’s got no choice but to scramble up onto the table, right on top of a completely naked Peter.

Also, a still-snarling, pissed-off Peter. “Can you watch that?” he snaps, jerking under Stiles. “I’m glad to see you’re not a completely irresponsible— _watch_ it!”

“It’s a really narrow table!” Stiles pants in between chants. 

It really is. Peter’s stretched out with his arms tied above his head and his ankles similarly lashed to the opposite corners, and there’s maybe an inch and a half of space all around him. Stiles has to straddle him to not fall off, and it’s not like Stiles is trying to almost jab Peter in the groin with the end of the lacrosse stick, but the ceiling’s low so Stiles has to keep the stick down to avoid catching the other end in it, and the only way Stiles can make sure he doesn’t get Peter’s—Stiles scoots himself up Peter’s legs and sits on Peter’s…stuff that he’s not thinking about because he’s busy banishing cultists when he’s not bopping their grabby hands with the stick.

The thing is, they don’t seem to really have bones, so hitting them is a little bit like smacking a punching bag. It goes away, and then it swings back. So Stiles has to keep flailing while trying to scroll down his phone, and he’s getting tired. Only a shout from Peter gets him twisted around to hit the cultist coming up from behind, and then Stiles almost drops his phone because his hand’s gotten so sweaty.

“Put it down,” Peter hisses. “Your phone, damn it, put it on me, and then get me shifted, it’s the damn incense—”

“Wha,” Stiles gasps, but just then, right behind the cultist he’s currently battering, he sees the little incense mister in the corner.

It’s too far for him to reach, so he—he looks at the current wave of hands reaching towards them, grimaces, and gives them all a hard whack. Then he hikes his hand up the stick while they’re on the retreat. Aims, launches it at the mister, and then slams himself down on top of Peter, body curled up around to make a little cave around his phone as he frantically reads off the screen.

Shit, he thinks, feeling the first gnarly fingernail scrabbling at his jeans. Shit, he missed the mister—

Roaring, Peter lurches up. One of his hands smacks down on Stiles’ back, keeping Stiles from falling off the table—even if Stiles is kind of wheezing the chants—while the other—does rippy stuff. Rippy, gushy stuff that Stiles is happy to not watch as he cuddles the tiny glowing screen.

The nails pulling at Stiles rapidly disappear. Peter lets out a sharp cough, then spits out something. “Well, that—” he says, and then he suddenly chokes “— _that_ —that _smell_ —”

It’s a breathing break in the chants so Stiles risks lifting his head. He gets a bunch of pectorals, and then he shakes himself and pushes his head past Peter. “Why is there a hole in your basement wall?”

“It’s a tunnel,” Peter gasps, in between wheezes. “To the preserve.”

“Oh, _great_ , just invite them in, why don’t you,” Stiles says, while working himself around Peter so he can face it. He maybe grabs some things, like thighs and abs, and other things maybe bob around and poke at his arm and his belly so he reaches down to push them out of the way and then realizes what he’s got a handful of, and never mind, he can see tentacles. “Okay, listen, I gotta finish this chant no matter what so just—”

Stupid goddamn narrow table, its edge drops off just as Stiles decides he’d better get to chanting, and it’s all he can do to not squeak the vowels too long as Peter drags him back on. He grabs at Peter’s shoulder, then hikes himself up, trying very hard not to pay attention to the hand on his ass. Every word he gets out is making the Thousand Young shudder and get just a little more immaterial, and he just keeps at it. 

The ground starts shuddering like another earthquake. Stiles’ voice trembles with it, but he hooks his arm around Peter’s neck and latches his legs around the other man’s body, clutching his phone as reality seems to flicker in and out, the basement walls going thin and translucent as some other, more terrifying world comes too close. Peter’s all slippery with sweat, and once he suddenly flops down so they both almost topple off the table, but he grabs the edge just in time and Stiles in turn grabs his thigh.

“—spake Nodens!” Stiles finishes, and everything hangs and then—

—ever so softly, comes back down. The basement walls, the scattered heaps of robes with the stains quickly soaking up through the cloth. The terrible-smelling but no longer terrifying lump in the tunnel. Stiles takes a deep breath, and even though it makes him want to throw up again, he’s actually glad for the feeling. If he wants to throw up, he knows he hasn’t ended up in their dimension.

“Well, that’s baby down,” he mutters.

“Impressive,” Peter says, and when Stiles looks at the man, Peter really seems to mean it. He’s looking at Stiles like he might almost apologize for being a dick earlier. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“What? No. I mean, why?” Stiles says.

“Oh, I just wanted to check before I made any reservations,” Peter says, and the casual tone should be warning enough. “You’re staying at Scott and Allison’s apartment, am I right? I’ll pick you up, it’ll be on the way—”

“Wait—what.” Stiles stares at Peter while Peter glances around them, then carefully leans down and hooks up a mostly-unstained rug. “Excuse me? Are you—do you—you sound like we’re going out on a date. If this is about the research access, we don’t have to meet up, I’ll send you a link with the paperwork and then make some calls. It’s all remote, completely hands-off.”

“That would be convenient, thank you,” Peter says. He shakes out the rug, then gives Stiles an amused smile. “Although you don’t actually seem that averse to hands _on_ , to be honest.”

His eyes drop down between them, just as Stiles realizes just how far up Peter’s thigh he’s been holding and yelps and yanks away his hand. And loses his balance and falls off the table. Into dissolved cultist puddles.

“Stiles!” comes Scott’s voice from the other end of the basement, along with pounding footsteps. “Stiles! Are you okay? Stiles?”

“Right here! I’m good, Peter’s—alive, and the Thousand Young’s gone,” Stiles says, stalking quickly towards Scott. Strictly speaking, he should go into the tunnel and check that corpse to be sure, but he thinks that can wait till Peter’s dressed. And Peter’s free and can wolf out, so if he gets eaten before somebody gets down there with clothes for that smarmy asshole, Stiles doesn’t think it should be on him.

* * *

Melissa and a local deputy show up just in time for the clean-up, which is pretty extensive, seeing as the cultists had taken over the whole house and there are sticky robes everywhere now. Laura seems angrier about that than about the fact that they’d managed to get in and take everybody hostage, but that seems like a talk between her and her pack. Which keeps Peter occupied and away as Stiles does a quick check and confirms that there’s no more evil extradimensional goings on at the moment. And then Melissa does a quick check and has Scott shuttle Stiles off to the hospital for a going-over, which _hours_ later comes out all clear.

“Still gotta get out to the Nemeton—well, where it was—and check for clues and stuff,” Stiles says, just as a yawn catches him. “I mean. One thing’s gone, but once you open a door, it’s a door, not a wall, you know? You can’t just hang a picture on it and act like it’s a wall.”

“I…don’t think I totally follow that, but Mom says if nobody’s going to get attacked till the morning, you should go home and get some sleep,” Scott says, walking Stiles into the parking lot. “Come on, you look exhausted.”

“Yeah, you’ve been nodding off for the last few minutes,” Allison says, coming up on Stiles’ other side. She tucks her hand through Stiles’ arm. “I don’t think this is what you were planning on for your first day back.”

Scott lets out a long sigh as he unlocks the car door. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that,” he says. “I’m sorry, I wish you’d had a better trip.”

“Just got here, what are you talking about,” Stiles mumbles. The adrenaline crash is starting, he thinks, but he’s pushed himself for longer. He could go out there, it wouldn’t take that long. Though maybe he’ll just get a quick nap on the way.

Stiles puts his head against the headrest, and when he picks it up again, he’s lying in his underwear in Scott’s guest bedroom. On the bed, blanket over him. He frowns and reaches out for his phone, which is on the side table, and checks the time.

“Oh, hey, you’re up!” Scott says brightly, as five minutes later, Stiles flusters himself into the kitchen. “Allison and I just were finishing up lunch, but we can make you up another sandwich and—”

“Did anything happen?” Stiles snaps.

Scott pauses, then puts down his pickle remnant. Beside him, Allison swigs some soda and then shakes her head. “No, nobody died, no more deer corpses, nothing weird at the Nemeton and we had live eyes watching this time. Calm down, take a shower, get dressed. We were just waiting for you to check out the Nemeton.”

“Okay. Okay.” Stiles rubs at the top of his head. He looks down at himself, then looks up at them.

“Sorry if that came off weird, but they were pretty filthy and I didn’t think you wanted to wake up like that,” Scott says, ducking his head a little. He scrubs at the side of his face with one hand. “We didn’t do anything with them except stick them in biohazard bags.”

“Oh. No, that’s cool, they were your clothes any—shit, they were _your_ clothes,” Stiles says.

Scott straightens up and relaxes. “It’s no big deal, I have more,” he says cheerfully, turning around. He opens up the fridge and then peers into one of the drawers. “You still like ham and Swiss with mustard?”

“Uh, yeah, and I’m—I’m going to—shower and clothes—yeah.” And then Stiles beats a retreat to the guest bedroom.

While he’s making himself respectable, Stiles checks through his messages. There’s some stuff from the University’s career center, a couple emails from his thesis advisor about the cut-down version they’re trying to get published, a spate of new-alumni spam. Two text messages from his dad, one saying he’s glad Stiles’ plane touched down safely, the other reminding Stiles that his dad will be in work meetings for the rest of the week so hit up the other number for emergencies. Friend invites from Peter, Laura, and a Cora Hale, who appears to be Laura’s little sister. An email with a ‘Contact’ subject heading that turns out to be from Chris Argent, which contains his contact info plus the contact info for various local government officials, like police, fire, waste disposal, that sort of thing.

Chris’ email also has contact info for Laura and Peter. Stiles transfers all of the info into his phone’s contacts list, and then, after some thinking, switches over to the email account he uses when he doesn’t want replies. He copy-pastes the link to Miskatonic’s online research access application process into an email and shoots it off to Peter. Then he switches to text and sends his dad Peter’s email address, telling him Peter’s somebody this local druid named Alan Deaton knows and Stiles is just passing along the ask and whatever his dad thinks and really, really not urgent.

That done, Stiles gets dressed and goes out and Peter Hale is standing in the kitchen. “There you are,” Peter says with a little click of his tongue. “Well, we’re running a little behind, but Mauricio is usually very understanding—”

“He says you two have a date,” Scott says. Moving in between as Peter attempts to cross the kitchen. “I know he’s lying, but—”

“We figured you might want a chance to punch him first,” Allison finishes.

Peter draws himself up, deeply offended. “Really, now,” he says. He’s all spiffed up, Stiles can’t help noticing: carefully styled hair, nice slacks, really tight tee with the plunging neckline again. “I’d think the _least_ I deserve after the way you threw me to the cultists and then groped and molested my helpless naked body is a good meal.”

“I—you—okay. Okay, that is _good_ , I’ll admit,” Stiles says. “But just so you know, in my opinion, you’re working way, way too hard at trying to win info I’ll give away without the expensive lunch. Just my opinion, and I know I’m just some kid who read a lot of pulp horror and all.”

When Peter winces, it does seem to be genuinely embarrassed. It’s also carefully calculated to stretch his shirt tightly enough to outline his pecs and the middle of his abs, and to give him an excuse to shuffle a few inches closer. “Yes, well, I admit that that was a hasty judgment, proven wrong. But I do have to correct you on your own hasty judgment, since I’m not here for your knowledge.”

Allison lets out a loud, snorting, skeptical noise, and then doesn’t look that ashamed at it when Peter slews about to give her a slit-eyed look. She does start clearing the plates from the kitchen table, but that seems more about being able to swipe the serrated bread knife vaguely in Peter’s direction.

“You’re not,” Stiles says. “Yeah. And you’re actually here because somewhere in the clusterfuck that was last night, you decided I’m incredibly attractive and you just _have_ to have me.”

“Well, what’s unreasonable about that?” Peter asks in a very mild tone. “You’re competent, I’m interested. Romantic tragedies have sprung out of far sillier reasons.”

“Sure, but that still seems like a really low standard for a guy like you,” Stiles says. “I mean, hey, the guy knows how to keep us from getting killed? You seriously can’t do any better around here?”

Peter snorts. “You’d be surprised. But that’s not my standard either, and I do think you’re jumping to conclusions again, Stiles. After all, what do you know about me, exactly?”

“Werewolf, dodgy magic but not apocalyptic, fancy coffee, nice clothes, and I fully admit I’m going on very little info here, but a super-dysfunctional pack,” Stiles says.

Scott tenses up and Stiles can see his nails going a little pointy, while by the counter, Allison’s hand detours from the sink to a drawer near the sink, which is probably where she’s keeping her spare werewolf deterrent. And admittedly, that was pretty harsh of Stiles on a guy who’s been annoying but not actually evil. Yet.

To his credit, Peter takes it pretty calmly. His eyes harden for a second, though he smiles at the same time and the way his skin crinkles up around his eyes hides that pretty well. He nods slowly, then takes a step forward, his eyes flicking to Scott and then back to Stiles. 

“Reasonably accurate under the circumstances, I suppose,” Peter says. “And I could also observe that you’re clearly well-versed in the same kind of magic that’s caused all the trouble here, and interestingly, have popped back up in Scott’s life just as we’ve had our first-ever Cthulhic outbreak. But before Scott loses his temper, I do want to say I think these kinds of conversations tend to go down better with a good grill and wine list.”

“Grill?” Stiles says after a moment’s thought. “Also, I’m more of a craft beer type.”

“Well, they have a rotating tap of six local breweries,” Peter offers.

“Stiles, you don’t have to,” Scott says earnestly. “This isn’t a—a pack politics thing, and anyway, you did plenty last night, we all owe _you_.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles says. He steps up to Scott’s side, right in front of a smiling Peter, and throws his arm over Scott’s shoulders. “But you know what? It’s cool, this is what I got a degree in anyway. So I think one lunch should even it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Necronomicon_ comes in several editions (how many depends on what works you think are canonical Cthulhu Mythos), and the Sussex edition is supposedly a version that's very suspect in the eyes of serious scholars.
> 
> Copies of the _Necronomicon_ have a surprisingly diverse geographical spread, but in North America, most of the copies are located on the East Coast (because Lovecraft was obsessed with Providence, Rhode Island and generally hated leaving New England).
> 
> Yeah, Nodens is an actual god in Celtic myth. He also is a figure in the Cthulhu Mythos.
> 
> In general, I like deliberately messing with genre tropes, both playing them straight and deconstructing them. So if you sense some authorial mockery during this series, you're probably right.


	4. Epilogue

_“John Stilinski,”_ comes a gruff, impatient voice. _“Who’s this?”_

“It’s Melissa, John,” Melissa says. “Melissa McCall.”

There’s a pause, filled in with the frantic rustling of somebody trying to find somewhere to put down their coffee, and then John comes back on sounding a lot friendlier. _“Oh, hey, sorry. I didn’t recognize the number.”_

“Oh, right, sorry, I’m calling from work,” Melissa says.

John pauses again. _“You mean the morgue?”_ he asks, back to wary.

“Stiles is fine,” Melissa says immediately, twinging onto that note of worry in his voice that all parents know far too well. “He’s fine, I’m not calling for—he got here safe and sound, and had dinner at my place, and right now he’s at Scott’s apartment.”

 _“Great,_ ” John says. _“So what the hell happened that you’re calling me?”_

Melissa pulls the phone from her ear a little bit, then settles it back between her head and her shoulder. The John Stilinski she remembers was always wiser to Stiles’ habits than he’d usually let on, but she doesn’t think he was this curt before. “Well, I was getting to that, but I have a couple questions first. Stiles was telling us about his degree and Miskatonic University, and some of what he’d been studying turns out to be relevant to a few deaths here—”

 _“Hell,”_ John grunts. There’s a sharp thud, rapid footsteps, and then the sound of an opening door. _“Okay, do what he says but don’t let him out of your sight, and tell him I’ll be on the first flight out. And whatever you saw, I know it’s bizarre as hell but the best thing you can do is just keep calm. It’s happening, don’t be stupid about that, but—”_

“Now, hold on a second,” Melissa says sharply. She probably doesn’t have to be—she doesn’t detect anything but urgency in his tone, but she’s just worked far too many years to get her voice heard, and had to take that knowing tone from far too many men who actually didn’t know what they were talking about. “Listen, John, before you go running off, I want you to know that Beacon Hills is special and it’s my town. We do have something here that I thought I’d better call you about, but don’t take that as we need outsiders barging in.”

Melissa needs a breath after all that, but she takes it in slowly, trying not to let the sound filter through. On the other end she just hears light breathing for a few seconds. Then there’s the sound of the door again, John walking back into his office.

 _“Special?”_ he says. _“As in what?”_

A creak makes Melissa start and look up. Across the room, Chris pulls an apologetic face and spreads his hands, backing slowly away from the still-trembling gurney. She rolls her eyes and waves him over, and then starts tugging at her hair. “Well…werewolves. Druids. A professional hunter family. Which is normal for us, and you’re going to deal with me if you think otherwise.”

 _“Huh. That does make sense of a few things,_ is all John says.

“What is _not_ normal, on the other hand, are cultists that turn into goo, things with tentacles poaching the local deer, and a spike in psychotic breaks,” Melissa goes on. “But I’m guessing from what Stiles has been doing around town that that might make sense to you.”

 _“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”_ Then John mutters a couple curses under his breath. _“Okay, look, I’m still of half a mind to get on a plane, but Stiles would—look, honestly, how is he? Is he actually confident, or does he look like he’s just putting up a brave face for you, or what?”_

“Well, honestly, he seems really annoyed with everyone, not that I blame him,” Melissa says, wishing she could mutter some choice language of her own. When the Hales aren’t causing the trouble, they’re bickering too much with each other to be any good as back-up, and sometimes she really just wants to pick them all up and toss them in the corner to think about what they’ve done for a while. “He keeps lecturing us on how obvious we’re being.”

That actually gets a barking laugh from John. _“Yeah, that’s my kid. So he’s fine, and you’re calling for info, not help—”_

“That and just to let you know, as one parent with an oddball kid to another,” Melissa sighs.

John pauses, then lets out a softer, less sarcastic laugh. _“Good to know I don’t remember all of it wrong. Anyway, Stiles knows more than I do about this sort of thing, to be honest—what I get worried about is what he does with that knowledge. So I’m going to call him, but he’ll blow me off so if you don’t mind keeping me updated, I’d appreciate that. I’m in the middle of emailing you a couple resources that might come in handy—I have a full work-week, but text me right away if it blows up. Otherwise I’ll plan on flying out to pick him up and drop off a clean-up kit with you. Hopefully that’s not stepping on any toes?”_

“It will, but they’re not mine so I’m not that worried about it,” Melissa says. She thanks him, and then she and John exchange a few more pleasantries before he says he has to get to a meeting.

“Sounded pretty cooperative,” Chris says as Melissa puts down her phone.

She looks at him, and then at the stack of patient files from the hospital’s psych unit in front of her. “Sure, if you’ve never met him or Stiles,” she mutters. She pokes the stack, then sighs and divides it in two, keeping half and handing the other to Chris. “Well, at this rate we’ll deal with what’s in front of us first and so far, John’s not. So get going, I have to have these back after lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is planned as a multi-installment, non-episodic series, so yeah, we will get to that date of Stiles and Peter's. I'll be posting installments as they're finished.


End file.
